Three
by rk007
Summary: Three times that Marty Deeks and Kensi Blye hit the sheets and the resulting fall-out. Non-graphic adult situations and language. Will be a three-parter.
1. Chapter 1

The first time that it happens, they're almost nine months into their partnership.

She's angry and emotionally raw, and he feels terrible for her, and perhaps that's a volatile cocktail to begin with.

Speaking of cocktails, that's maybe where the trouble really kicks into gear. They're out at a bar together (his bar – the one with the flavored condoms, but oddly enough, on this night, she hasn't made a single crack about them yet). It's just the two of them, sitting at the bartop, knocking back shot after shot of Jack.

As they drink, both of them feeling the effects of the alcohol as the night wears on, he's trying to convince her that what had happened earlier in the day – awful though it may have been – was not her fault.

She's not having it, though.

Because Kensi Blye doesn't _ever_ fucking miss with a gun.

Ever.

Today, however, she not only had missed her shot, but a kid of maybe twenty-two had died because of it.

Long ago, she'd stopped seeing herself as young – far too much life lived at continuous and relenting high speeds for her to be able to claim the label of youth any longer – but others, those not in this life, well to her, they're all kids and they're all innocents and they _must_ be protected. At any cost.

Today, she had failed in that.

Deeks tries frantically to explain her to the handful of reasons why she should cut herself slack – it'd been a tight shot to begin with and the distance had been significant and the kid had suddenly moved into the bullet and…

None of that matters to her.

All that does is that a twenty-two year old kid, who had stumbled onto the end of a shoot-out between the good guys and the bad guys, had ended up paying a horrible price for his simple youthful (albeit naïve) curiosity.

And he had paid that horrible price because she had missed her fucking shot.

She's been suspended for a week, though it's an administrative thing and not a disciplinary one. The action reports that the rest of the team had filed support her completely. They all say the same thing – horrible and unfortunate, but not her fault. She, of course, disagrees completely.

Still, the reports lay it out pretty simply.

The moment the kid had stumbled onto the scene, thinking that it was somewhat cool to actually get to see a real life gunfight, the bad guys had viewed him as leverage and one of them had pulled him close and put a gun to his head.

Too much had been at stake to surrender the fight because of one kid – these bastards had been moving bomb making materials in and out of the country. Already, their little toys of destruction had claimed a dozen lives. These guys had to be stopped, absolutely had to be or far more people would die.

Which meant that the kid was either to be seen as collateral damage or someone else to be saved. Typical for this team – for her – she had chosen the latter.

"I have the shot," she'd said softly, lightly touching her ear.

"Are you sure you get the shooter?" Callen had asked from where he was crouched down behind a bullet-ridden car several paces away. Over the earpiece, his voice had sounded small and mechanical.

She'd peered up and around the wall that she and Deeks had been behind. She'd gauged her shot, lined it up and then replied, "Yeah, I can do it."

So much certainty, so much calm.

"Then take the shot, Kens," Callen had said.

She'd glanced back at Deeks, who had simply nodded a grim "go ahead" and then she had turned around, aimed her Sig and fired a single shot.

Killing someone always happens in slow motion. At least for her it does. She can always see the trajectory of the bullet, almost Matrix style, as it cuts through the air. She can always see the faces of the men she kills – their surprise, their shock - moments before the bullet crushes into them, ending their lives.

She tries not to think about it that way – ending lives – but it is what it is.

It's a strange thing to realize that what you're really good at is taking lives.

Still, again, it is what it is.

This bullet had started out no different for her. It had powered through the noisy air (the sound of other bullets also crashing into the metal of cars and nearby dumpsters echoing loudly in her ears) intent on its goal – the man who was holding the kid hostage.

The shot had been fired perfectly – it had been certain to hit its mark.

But then the kid had changed the game; overwhelmed by the fear of death, he'd suddenly jerked in his captor's arms and tried to get away. He had thrust himself forward and therefore, directly into the path of the bullet.

He'd been dead before he'd known it.

"Oh, God," she'd heard Deeks say. She'd been able to say nothing.

And then she'd just stared, shocked and horrified to such a degree that her body had refused to obey such simple commands as "move" and "duck". Only fast action by Deeks had kept her from taking a few bullets to he own head. He'd stepped in front of her, pushed him behind her, and fired off round after round. And still, she hadn't moved an inch.

It hadn't been until the gunfight had been over, and the NCIS team had clearly won the battle, when sense had begun to return to her – albeit very slowly.

"Kensi!" Callen had called out, he and Sam rushing over, a rifle slapping loudly against Sam's massive back as he ran towards her.

She'd looked up at them, wide-eyed, her mouth slightly open as if trying to figure out what to say, but knowing that no words could explain this. Or make it better.

"Kensi?" Sam had asked, kneeling down next to her. "Kensi?" When she hadn't responded, he'd turned to Callen, "I think she's in shock. We should get her to –"

Only the impending threat of a trip to the hospital had snapped her completely out her funk. "No…no, I'm…I'm fine." Then, pushing her hand against the wall, she'd forced herself to her feet. And nearly fallen in the process when her jellied legs had for a moment, refused to support her.

Deeks had been there again, though; hand on her back to support her.

She'd given him a grateful look and then moved away from all three of the men. She'd crossed the battle zone in several quick strides and made her way over to the corpse of the kid, his light blue eyes still open and forever staring upwards. Alex O'Hara, born and raised in Culver City. Dead at twenty-two.

Thanks to her.

It'd taken everything she'd had in her not to completely lose her mind at that moment. But like a pro, she'd held it together.

Until now.

Now, sitting next to Deeks at the bar, all she wants to do is drink and forget.

Which, of course, means that all he wants to do is talk and help and make her understand.

She wonders why they can't ever be completely on the same page at the same time.

It's her fault, really, what happens next. Realizing that he's not going to stop pushing and trying to help, she sighs dramatically and says "Fine, let's talk, but can we do it elsewhere?"

And of course, he agrees.

His mistake is that he decides against bringing her back to her own apartment, and instead brings her to his.

She's plastered, he figures – though he's not much better – and her apartment is the kind of place where there are too many different and creative ways to accidentally do harm to yourself, especially when you're absolutely blitzed.

So he calls a cab and has them brought back to his apartment.

It's once they're inside the front door when everything goes upside down in a hurry. He's locking it, his fingers stumbling repeatedly over the deadbolt, when he feels her hands on him. And she's not just supporting herself anymore; she's running her hands over his chest, her fingers flying over the rough flannel fabric.

He feels his heart start to pound frantically in his chest.

He turns towards her and before he can ask what she's doing, her lips are on his and she's kissing him like no woman has ever kissed him before.

He's drunk, but he has some sense in him. Enough to know that for so many reasons, he should probably stop this.

But then her hands on his shirt and she's not just unbuttoning it, she's damn near ripping it open. He hears the tiny sound of buttons hitting the ground, and then she's breaking away from him only long enough to shove him against the wall. He grunts as his back collides with the hard surface, but he doesn't have long to dwell on the flash of pain he feels before her lips are on his again, ripping away his oxygen – and his sensible protests. He feels her press her body against his, just about molding it to him.

"Kensi," he manages when she finally moves her mouth away from his. It comes out as little more than a squeaking gasp. "We…should…we shouldn't…"

"Shut up, Deeks," she growls, and then he feels her place one hand on his hip. He looks down and sees that her other hand is on his belt, and she's deftly unbuckling it. In the back of his mind, he's a bit amazed by how coordinated she is, even in her highly inebriated state.

"Oh, Kensi," he says. He tries to put his hand over hers to stop her progress (and damn has she made progress in such a mind-blowingly short amount of time), but she roughly pushes it away.

It's quite clear to him that she has no intention of being halted.

He feels the alcohol settling on him, fogging his brain – or at least he thinks that that's a viable excuse for allowing this to happen.

And then he feels the cold air hit his legs as she yanks his jeans down, leaving him only in boxers and his freshly torn open flannel shirt.

"Nice," she purrs, taking a moment to look at him, her eyes heavily lidded. "But the shirt has to go." As if to prove her words, she leans forward and shoves the ripped flannel off of him. It floats to the ground, joining his jeans and belt, which are pooled around his ankles.

It occurs to him, then, that he's pretty much naked (save his boxers and his boots) and she's still completely dressed. Somehow, that doesn't feel fair at all.

"Kensi," he says. "Uh…"

But then she's pressed back up against him, her hands roaming over his chest. He just about collapses to his knees when he feels her press a kiss against the area just below his heart. After everything that has happened - her touch, her kisses - that one is just about enough to drive him absolutely over the edge.

He pulls her up towards him and forces her to meet his eyes. She looks angry and hurt, but also very turned on. She's beautiful like this. No, she's always beautiful, but like this, well she's almost a scary kind of stunning.

A frantic overexposed and shockingly vulnerable kind of stunning.

"Are you sure about this?" he asks, and he's not terribly sure what answer he wants – or needs – to hear.

She doesn't answer at all, at least not verbally. Instead, she just kisses him again. This is one is slightly softer, but still passionate. She weaves one of her hands into his messy hair, pulling him closer.

He gives in. He knows he shouldn't – he knows that this is a very bad idea – but he tries to rationalize that she needs him right now. He tries to rationalize that if this is all he can do to make her feel better about had happened earlier in the day, than maybe what's happening between them now is completely acceptable.

A moment later, when her hand is cupping him through his shorts, all protests and rationalizations fade away.

He slides a hand beneath the hem of her shirt and pushes it upwards, exposing her skin. And then he kisses her back and doesn't stop until they both pass out from exhaustion.

* * *

Morning comes far too soon for his liking. Sunlight shines in through the window closest to hid bed, splashing down on his face. He groans, the memory (and the pounding headache) of the hard drinking from the night before hitting him like a freight train as he tries to sit up.

A moment later, another memory hits him.

A much more passionate one.

Hands, mouths. Touching, kissing, caressing.

Rhythm and…cries of ecstasy and need. He looks around at the room, which shows that all of the action hadn't been in the bed.

"Oh, Kensi," he says. "What have we…"

He turns to his side and to his great shock, sees that she's not there.

"Kensi?"

He hears nothing but the sound of cars outside of his apartment.

He climbs out of his bed (taking one look down at his naked body), and then reaches for a pair of flannel bottoms. He pads his way down the hallway and into the front room, stepping over his clothes from the previous night, including his torn shirt. "Kensi?"

It doesn't take him long to realize that she's gone.

He laughs slightly, but he has to admit, while he's not all that surprised that she bailed before he'd come to, he is deeply annoyed.

And then he's worried. He hopes that his inability to stop what had happened last night – his weakness and his rather selfish need for her – hasn't damaged something good.

He hopes it hasn't changed things for them.

But of course it has.

And he's sure she knows it, too.

* * *

He tries calling her several times during the week she's on administrative suspension, but she won't pick up. He doesn't dare ask Sam or Callen if they've heard from her because then they'd know that something had happened between their female agent and their LAPD liaison and he just doesn't want to get into with them. So instead, he's tried dropping by her place a few times, but on each occasion, either she's not in (it's hard to tell because she parks her car in an underground garage) or she's simply not answering the door.

Either way, the first time he sees her after their night together is a week later, back at the Mission. She seems like herself, so much like herself that he can't help but think it an act. In any case, she's been completely cleared back to duty, which is a relief for everyone. In the presence of the rest of the team, the partners joke and tease each other like normal (she tells him he needs a haircut, he says he thinks maybe the she's putting on some weight on the backside thanks to all the ho-hos), but he doesn't miss the way that she's refusing to make eye contact with him.

It's not until they're in her car, on the way to a crime scene, when he says softly, his eyes on the road ahead of them, "So are we going to talk about what happened?"

She laughs. That's okay; he'd been expecting it. She may not realize it yet, but even if he doesn't know all of her secrets, he gets her. He knows that when she's uncomfortable or nervous, she falls back on the things she'd learned from her father. Namely, how to lock all of her emotions as far down and away as she can. In short, he'd taught her how to be strong and never show weakness.

He wonders if she sees their night together as weakness on her part.

He's pretty sure she does.

"That's not an answer," he says.

"There's nothing to talk about, Deeks," she replies, her voice tightly controlled and cool. Like she's trying to stop the conversation in its tracks.

Too bad.

"Really? Nothing at all? Because I'm pretty sure I can come up with a few things like you know, you jumping me and what happened…afterward."

"Nothing happened afterward."

He blinks. "You're...just going to pretend it didn't happen? _That's_ the path you're going to take on this one?"

She sighs. "We're working," she says. "And this isn't the time or the place for this discussion."

"You're absolutely right. The time or the place for this discussion would have been a couple days ago when I tried to call you. Or maybe when I dropped by your apartment so that we could talk this out. Weird how in both cases, you wouldn't answer."

She shrugs, but doesn't bother denying that she'd been avoiding him.

"Look, what happened…"

"Please, Deeks..."

He pushes on, "I don't want it to cause issues between us."

"It won't."

"It is."

"Only for you," she mutters. "I'm fine."

He stares at her a moment, trying to feel her out. He knows that she's not fine – if she had been, she wouldn't have gone out of her way to avoid him – but he also rather instinctively knows that he's wasting his time trying to push her into talking about it. "Fine," he says.

"Great. Now can we do our job?" there's a hint of something in her tone – bitterness, sadness, he can't be sure.

"Sure."

It's several minutes later, and they're almost to their destination, when he can't help himself (he was never good at knowing when to quit) and says quietly, "You owe me a new shirt, you know that, right?"

He sees her hands tighten on the steering wheel, knuckles turning white.

"I mean I really liked that shirt. Really liked it."

"Deeks," she growls.

"It was soft and comfortable, and it looked great on me."

"Would you please shut the fuck up?" she suddenly snaps.

"Okay then, there's the emotion I was looking for."

"You're an idiot."

"Maybe so, but I'm an idiot who cares about you. Who cares about us."

"We're fine, Deeks."

"I don't think we are."

"Why?" she demands. "Why aren't we fine?"

"Because something happened between us –"

"That something was a mistake, and we both know it."

"Okay, granted, but it still happened."

"I'm sorry," she says.

He blinks, and then laughs. "Are you just fishing around in your head for ways to make me shut up?"

"Is it working?"

"Does it ever?"

"No," she says, and to his relief, he thinks he sees a small smile form. It's enough to push him onward.

"So tell me then…why did you leave in the morning? I'm just curious. Did you forget to feed your fish or something?"

"I don't have any fish and as for why, I don't know, I just did."

"Just did," he repeats, clearly not buying it.

She parks the car then, and turns to face him, her eyes dark and unreadable, "Don't you get it, Deeks? I don't want to go back to that night. It was a horrible night, and I don't want remember it, okay?"

"Right, yeah, got it," he says quietly, hurt by her words more than he cares to admit. "Loud and clear."

She knows immediately what she'd done, and if she could take her thoughtless words back, she would. She hadn't meant _that_ part of the night – she'd meant the shooting and killing the kid part. She thinks maybe she should correct herself, but then decides not to. Maybe it's best that what happened back at his apartment be locked away in the same box. It's so much safer that way. To body and soul.

"We're here," Deeks says, and then he's out of the car, slamming the door behind him, his stride long and angry as he moves towards the crime scene.

Even if she doesn't really want to correct her prior words and the meaning behind them, she knows that she's going to have to make this up to him. Hurting him is not something she enjoys even a little bit. He's her partner, her friend and after that night, whether she's willing to admit it or not, so much more.

She watches him walk away for the briefest of moments – and it kills her.

It pains her the idea of losing someone else – especially him – because she's afraid. "Deeks," she calls out, despite the voice in her head telling her not to. "Deeks!"

He turns, and he looks so serious and so incredibly hurt that it almost breaks her heart. "What?" he asks softly.

"I _am_ sorry," she says. "That shouldn't have happened. And that's on me."

He looks around, as if making sure that no one else is watching or able to listen in, and then he makes his way back to her, slipping into her personal space. To her credit, she doesn't pull away.

"I didn't stop it," he says. "And _that's_ on me. But I'm not sorry it happened."

For a moment, she doesn't have a response to that. Finally, weakly, "You should have. Stopped it, I mean."

"I know."

They're both looking at each other and thinking the same thing, which is that they're glad that neither of them _had_ stopped it. Even if it means this super uncomfortable conversation outside a crime scene.

Neither of them can say that, though, because that would mean a whole different and much more uncomfortable conversation about mutual feelings and emotions. Neither of them are even close to ready for that. So this will do. For now.

"Are we okay?" he asks, after they've been staring at each other for far too long to sell the idea of nothing going on between them. They're both glad that Sam and Callen are about ten minutes – now much less – behind them.

"Yeah, we're okay," she says, and lifts her hand as if to touch his forearm. She pulls up short, though, and oddly, he feels the absence of her contact even though she'd never actually placed her hand upon his arm.

"Good."

"Can we go solve a case now?" she asks, laughing slightly nervously.

That's the moment when he knows that this – whatever this is - isn't resolved between them. It isn't even close to over.

But he simply nods because that's what he's supposed to do at this moment, that's what she needs him to do, "Let's do this, partner."

She smiles – a beautiful and full one – gratefully, and then pulling out her badge, she steps towards the crime scene, all of her prior discomfort sweeping easily away as she enthusiastically enters the world she knows – and can control – best. "Hi," he hears her call out. "NCIS."

He follows a moment later, knowing that he'd follow her anywhere.

And that, he realizes, is half the problem.

A problem that isn't going away for them anytime soon.

**TBC...**


	2. Chapter 2

The second time it happens is three months later (eighty-one days to the date to be more exact). Since that night, he's spent a lot of time trying not to remember (not because he wants to, but because it seems the only one to keep himself from losing his mind thinking about it), and she's spent just as much time trying to pretend it never happened at all.

He's pretty sure that neither of them has been all that successful.

Still, their partnership is solid (and nearing almost a year in length) and for both of them, that's worth ignoring the non-platonic feelings that seem to creep up on them from time to time.

That said, on the night (well, really the morning) of the second time, ignoring those swirling feelings is the last thing either of them is capable of doing.

This time doesn't involve alcohol, but the anger is there. More frustration really, and then a whole lot of other dangerous emotions.

It all starts for him because long after the day is done and the NCIS OSP team has said its typical "have a good nights", he's restless and anxious, and he can't quite figure out why. He has a nagging feeling that it has something to do with his partner (he's beginning to realize that much of his life has come to revolve around her), but he can't quite figure out or put a finger on why just yet.

It's not until he's driving around town, flipping through channels on the police radio in his car (maybe looking for something to get involved in or maybe just trying to see how alive the city is), when he begins to think back a few hours.

It'd been a fairly routine and boring day, one full of working out in the gym, reading over case reports and finishing up paperwork. In fact, pretty much nothing of consequence had occurred. The team had a few active cases running, but none that required constant undercover work – at least for the time being.

So yeah, it'd been a dull day overall.

Still, he realizes that there'd been a few things that had been unusual and a bit out of place. Well, okay, one thing really.

Kensi.

She'd been quiet and focused, absolutely refusing to be pulled off task. She's a serious woman typically (though he refuses to admit by nature. In his mind, she's the way she is because it's how she chooses to roll with the punches that life keeps delivering to her.), but this afternoon had been more than that.

Usually, he can get her to banter with him, throw a few jokes back and forth. Sometimes, if her mood is dark enough, he'll set himself to be laughed at or mocked, just because it makes everything easier. It's a harmless pattern, and by now, there's no malice or ill intent. It's comfortable and easy and it's their thing.

She'd been in no mood for that, however. The best he'd gotten out of her had been a few smirks and a small smile or two, but no return shots and certainly no direct hits. That alone should have set alarm bells ringing, but he'd gotten distracted by basketball talk and for a while, forgotten all about her odd mood.

Now, with nothing but the chatter of cops and dispatchers filling the air around him, there's little to stop him from thinking about her.

He thinks maybe he should call her and check up on her, but then quickly disregards the idea. They're partners and they're friends, and maybe even something a lot more than that, but he knows that if she's just having a bad day or not feeling well for whatever reason, the very last thing she'll want is him to come around asking questions.

No, if it's something simple (and even if it's not), she'll want her space, and though it pains him desperately, out of his very deep respect for her, he'll give her it. For twenty-four hours at least.

Once today is tomorrow, if her mood is the same, he has every intention of annoying her until she talks. He always wins that battle and they both know it.

He sighs and looks at the digital clock on the console. He's been driving around for over an hour. In that time, he's heard the dispatcher send black and whites to at least three B&Es and a couple of hairy sounding domestic disturbances.

Bored with the chatter, he reaches down, and is just about to turn off the radio, when he hears a loud honk on his left. He turns and sees a bright red Ferrari speed past him and then through a red light, going at least eighty-five on a forty-five mile an hour street.

"Awesome," he mutters, reaching for his radio. He's in no mood to chase the guy down, but he figures he should at least call it in and get someone to pull the jackass over before he kills someone.

He's just about to push down the button and speak into the mic when he hears an address come over the radio that sends ice water through his veins.

Kensi's address. Likely domestic disturbance, sounds of fighting.

He calls in the Ferrari as quickly as possible, then quickly turns his car around and heads across town, to his partner's apartment.

* * *

By the time he gets there, the uniforms are just arriving. He knows the two guys by name only – McCain and Dillon. McCain is older and suitably grizzled, Dillon is young and eager. They're a pairing right of a television show.

"Deeks," McCain growls as he approaches.

"What do we have?" Deeks asks, already on his way towards the door of the building.

"Called in by a neighbor, said she heard shouts and the sound of glass breaking. Maybe a scream or two. Why you here, Deeks?"

"I think I know the woman who lives in that apartment," he replies. "I work with her in my…other job."

"That government thing you've been doing?" Dillon asks. That's all the rest of the LAPD knows, that he's been loaned out to the government. The hows and whys and whats are pretty much need to know and only the top brass are that.

So Deeks simply nods.

"Lead the way then," McCain says.

They get up to her apartment – upstairs in the building, second floor, fifth from the elevator. The first thing he notices is that door is slightly open, and that alone is enough to turn his gut to ice. His partner is as security conscious as you can get. She almost never leaves her place in any way unsecured.

He pulls his gun, and puts a finger up for McCain and Dillon to be quiet. They both take out their own weapons, and then fall back behind him.

He pushes the door open, and steps inside, followed by the two cops. A quick look around the room shows chaos, but he's not sure how much of it is her normal clutter, and how much of it has to do with what's happened here.

Upon further entrance into her apartment, he sees his partner almost immediately, lying on the floor, on her stomach, just to the side of her couch.

"Kensi," he calls out frantically, ignoring the fact that he probably shouldn't be revealing her real identity to these cops. Then again, NCIS has typically been honest with other law enforcement.

"I'm calling a bus," McCain says, and then slips into the kitchen.

Deeks ignores him (and Dillon, who is hovering nearby). He pulls his partner into his arms, and turns her over. He almost recoils when he saw a massive bruise on the left side her jaw, bright red with specks of purple in it. He's pretty sure that the mark is why she's out cold – someone clocked her good.

The question is, why?

"Kensi?" he says softly, gently patting the side of her face that isn't injured. He repeats her name. It isn't until the third time when she groans. "Hey," he whispers, relief shooting through him.

"Deeks?"

"Yeah. What the hell happened to you? You start trying to…" he stops cold because while there are a thousand jokes he could try to tell, right now he's pretty sure that none of them are funny because right now, he's not at all sure that she's okay. He simply has no idea how badly she's been hurt.

And by whom.

She tries to sit up, but immediately, she winces as the blood rushes through her, and she feels the pain of whatever had hit her. "Ow."

"Easy," he prompts.

"No, I'm fine. Really, it's nothing."

"Nothing?" he asks in disbelief. "Are you kidding me?"

"Just…need an icepack," she groans.

"An icepack. No way, you're going to the hospital, and then you're going to tell me what happened and who did this to you."

"It doesn't matter," she answers. "And I'm not going to the hospital." She pushes him away from her, and then groggily gets to her feet.

He stares at her in shock. "You can't really be this stubborn," he insists. Her only answer is a half-grimace/half-smirk. It's utterly charming, and completely infuriating. He's not sure if he wants to kiss her or shake her.

Either one is probably not the best of ideas.

"I'm fine," she says again. "I just…"

"Ran your jaw into a wall?"

"Yes."

He blinks. He really hadn't been expecting her to throw up such a pathetic excuse for the fact that someone – most certainly a man – had hit her hard enough to knock her out. And in her own apartment.

"Deeks, what do you want to do here?" McCain asks, coming back into the room. "I have an ambulance on the way."

"Call it off," Kensi demands.

"Keep it coming," he snaps back.

"You're wasting their time, Deeks. I won't accept treatment, and I'm not going to the hospital. Call them off."

Reluctantly, Deeks nods.

"Okay," McCain replies. Then, "You want me to write this up…what do you want this written up as?"

"Kensi?" Deeks asks. "You care to tell us what this was?"

He knows damn well that she's going to stonewall even more now that he's put her completely on the spot with people she doesn't know and trust. He's not wrong; she shoots him an icy glare and then turns to McCain. "There's nothing to write up. I had too much to drink, and my neighbors are nosy."

Deeks sighs, "Guys, I'll handle this from here."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Whatever happened, she's all right. I'm sure there are other people out there who need your help. I'll file this one for you."

"Thanks," Dillon says.

Deeks nods, and then walks the two cops to the door.

"Woman problems, Deeks?" McCain cracks as he walking out it.

"You have no idea." And with that, he shuts the door, and turns back to face his partner, who is now standing next to her refrigeration, taking out an icepack.

He glances around the place, observing broken plates and overturned boxes. Then his eyes sweep up to the couch, and he noticed a pillow and a blanket on it.

"Someone stayed here last night?"

She snaps around, and immediately regrets it, wincing slightly as the blood again rushes through her, turning her cheeks bright red. After a brief moment of nausea, she says tightly, "It's none of your business."

"Really. Okay. Tell me this then, when are you going to get this through your damned head, Kensi, huh? We're partners, and I thought friends, too."

"Deeks…"

"Which means that I care about you. You know what? I care more than a little bit about you, I care a lot. A whole hell of a lot." His voice is starting to go up in volume, and they both know it.

"Deeks, please. I can't deal with this tonight."

"Deal with what?"

"You. This. Please."

"What is this?" He motions to the couch. "What happened here? Who did this?"

For a moment, she says nothing, but the dampness he suddenly sees around her eyes tells him that she's far more hurt than she'd like him to know.

"Kensi…"

"I tried to help him."

"Who?"

"Jack."

He looks at the couch again. "Jack was…Jack was here?" He feels a surge of what he can only guess is jealousy go through him. He's not proud of himself for the feeling, but nor is it something that he can completely control.

To himself – and to her if she'd allow it – he admits that his feelings for this woman go far beyond just friends or work partners. Their night together a few months back had been fantastic even with the alcoholic haze around it.

She's the one who wants to act like it never happened and like it doesn't mean anything. He doesn't buy it, but there's no point in pushing her. Maybe it's safer anyway. Like this, just partners, there's little that can come between them besides the bad guys they chase. As more than that, well then they have to deal with the perils of honest and real romantic emotions.

He's pretty sure that that's the last thing she wants to do.

All because of Jack.

And now, it seems like her mysterious ex has returned for another round of seeing how much he can hurt it. This time physically so.

It's enough to make Deeks want to find the guy and beat the shit out of him, which is pretty much a completely abnormal kind of feeling for him.

He doesn't much care for it at all.

"Yes," she replies, her eyes following his to the couch.

"Oh," Deeks says simply. Then, "I see." After a moment, though, he shakes himself out of his stupor and continues, "No, actually, I don't see. Did he hit you? Did he leave that…did he do that to you?"

"Deeks, I can take care of myself," she answers.

"That's not what I asked, Kensi. Did he do that to you?"

"Yes."

"You let him hit you?"

"No. Of course not. I…he surprised me. I never…I didn't block."

"He just came up to you and hit you?"

"Look around you, Deeks. Does that seem like what happened?"

"How the hell would I know? As usual, you're locking me out. If you would for once tell me what the hell is on your mind or what you're thinking, maybe we wouldn't have to play these games all the time."

"I didn't know our relationship was a game."

"You're doing it again. You know what? Screw this. Explain something to me," he demands. "Why after all this time do we still have trust issues?"

She looks directly at him, her eyes on his, and that's when he sees the exhaustion – and sadness – deep in her own mismatched orbs. She looks so tired and weary that for a moment, his anger seems to seep away. But then she replies, "I'm not in the mood for this."

It's enough to push him on. "Too bad. Answer the question."

"I didn't think we did."

"Really? So why won't you tell me why your ex-fiancée was here last night?"

She laughs. "Are you jealous? Is that what this about? You are, aren't you?"

"No, I'm…worried about you."

"Why? I've already told you I can take care of myself. You more than anyone else knows that I can."

"Normally I would agree with you, but Kensi, I just walked in on you lying unconscious on the floor of your apartment with a bruise the size of my fist on your face. You'll excuse me if I think that entitles me to be a little bit worried."

She sighs. "Fine." She looks back over at the couch, and he sees sadness overtake her expression.

"What happened?" he prompts again, his voice gentle now. He's realizing very quickly that anger isn't going to propel her into talking to him.

She pauses for a beat, as if deciding whether or not to open up. Finally, to his great relief, she chooses to do exactly that.

"A couple days ago, after work, I was at a bar, and I ran into one of the guys from his old platoon. He told me that he knew where Jack was, said that for the last several years, he's been in and out of homeless shelters between crashing with old Marine Corp buddies. Yesterday, I tracked him down to a shelter in Hollywood. He's so pale and thin, he looks like he's like half of his body weight."

"So you brought him back here?"

"Yeah."

"Did you two…"

"Sleep together?" she asks, looking up at him. "That's what you think this is all about? Sex? Do you really think I'm that easy?"

"No, I think you loved – love – him that much."

She smiles at him, some gratitude in the expression. After almost a year of working with him, she figures that she should by now that he's not the judging type, but it's hard to let go of the past and the expectations of everyone else.

"My relationship – whatever relationship it is now – it's more complicated than that," she says. "But no, we didn't sleep together. I offered to let him stay in the bed with me, but he refused. He stayed out here on the couch. When I left for work, he was still sleeping, and he looked so peaceful and calm, I didn't have the heart to wake him up."

"So what caused him to lose it?"

"I don't know. When I got home, he was in the kitchen cooking. He was singing and he was so happy and excited. It was like he was manic. When I tried to talk to him, get him to calm down and take a breath and talk to me, he blew up at me and started screaming. None of it made any sense, it was so much gibberish. He started jerking around and getting really demonstrative. I tried to grab him – I just wanted him to calm down before he hurt himself, but he…"

She puts her hand up to her jaw and rubs it.

"You never saw it coming."

"Stupid, right? I can't remember the last time someone knocked me out with one hit. I don't have a glass jaw."

He shrugs. "You weren't expecting the hit. No reason to, and no way to brace for the impact."

"It's our job to be prepared for anything."

"Our job, not our lives. If I went to have drinks with an old girlfriend, I wouldn't expect her to knock me out cold." Then, smiling slightly, "Well, maybe I would."

She laughs. "You're a fool, you know that, right?"

"A lovable one."

"Yeah." Then, her voice soft, "Go home, get some sleep. I'm okay."

"What are you going to do?" he asks as he sees her reach for her jacket.

"Try to find him again."

"Why?"

"I don't…in all of our time together, in all of our fights, Jack never so much as raised a hand to me or even backed me up against a wall. He was such a gentle man, and doing what he just did…I may not know him anymore, but I know enough to know that he's beating himself up for what he did, and I have to find him before he does something stupid. Do you understand that?"

"I do. I'll help you look."

She's surprised. "You don't…you don't have to."

"I want to."

"Why?"

"Because he means something to you. Am I a bit jealous because of that? Maybe, but I'll get over it. Now come on, the two of us can cover a lot of ground if we go in separate cars. He's on foot, I presume. Probably not far he can get."

For a moment she has no words, she just stares at him.

"Kensi?"

"Yeah, let's go," she answers, her voice thick with emotion.

And with that, she turns and is out the door. He follows close behind.

* * *

It's almost four hours later before they both return to her apartment. They've checked just about every shelter and every motel within a thirty-mile radius, but to no avail. He's called a few of his LAPD contacts, and put out word to keep an eye out for Jack, but neither of them is terribly hopeful that the Marine will be found anytime soon. Even in his state, Jack is well trained and knows how to avoid being located if that's what he wants, and Deeks is pretty damn sure it is.

Hitting and knocking out your ex-fiancée? Yeah, pretty much one of those things thats likely to make you run and hide under whatever rock you can find.

By the time they're both back sitting on her couch, he's exhausted and she's utterly worn down, both physically and emotionally. The bruise on her jaw stands out in sharp colorful contrast to the almost waxy paleness of her skin.

"Ice," Deeks says, offering her a new pack. She takes it from him and puts it against her jaw, wincing slightly. After a moment, he says, "I'm sorry."

"I know you are," she replies. "And I appreciate you coming with me. You really didn't have to do it."

"I'd do anything for you."

She turns to look at him. "Deeks."

"I mean it."

"Stop," she says. "Please."

"Okay, I'm sorry. I didn't –"

"Deeks, I don't know what to say here."

"Well, I suppose you could start with telling me how roguishly handsome I am, and how devastatingly sharp my wit is."

She laughs. "Really? That's what you come up with?"

"Just a couple of examples. I have more if you'd like."

"I'm afraid of your more."

At first, he thinks she's talking about his self-compliments, but a look into her dark eyes tells him that her reply had been far more loaded than that.

"I know," he replies. "But I'm not such a bad consolation prize."

"You're not a consolation prize at all," she admonishes.

"That sounds like a compliment there, Kiki."

"Kiki? We're having a serious moment and you call me Kiki?"

"Would you prefer Fern?"

"You really are a fool."

"You already called me that."

"Yeah, I did." She looks up at him then, and for a moment, gets hopelessly lost in his blue eyes. So serene and deep, so full of emotion. She reaches up and touches his face, her fingers tracing over his bearded cheek.

"Kensi," he whispers, not sure if he's asking her to start or stop.

She chooses to start.

She leans up and kisses him, her mouth insanely soft on his. It's a complete departure from the urgency of the last time she'd kissed him (well, not the absolute last time – that had been during their first night together, in bed). That one had been frantic and fueled by anger and alcohol. There's anger in this one as well, but it's muted and pained and more hurt than rage.

There's something else, though. Need and not just the base carnal kind. This is more emotional, and it makes the kiss that much sweeter.

He's absolutely helpless to resist her, even though he knows that he should (just as he knows that he should have last time as well). She kisses him and he kisses her back, and then he's lowering her against the sofa, his hands sliding under the fabric of her shirt, pushing it upwards, her skin warm against his palms.

"Not here," she whispers.

He's not completely sure how they get into their bedroom, but somehow or another, they do, and then he's peeling her clothes off, and she's doing the same to his. It's amazing to him, though, that neither of them has passed out from lack of oxygen since they've barely stopped kissing each other for longer than a second or two.

He feels her hands wind into his, and then they're on her bed. Everything happens quickly after that, no more words and no protests or requests to slow it down, just passion and pleasure and raw unfiltered emotion.

Long after she finally falls asleep, soaked in sweat and completely spent, he's awake, just holding her, against him, his fingers playing in her hair.

As he finally dozes off, he prays that she's next to him when he wakes him.

* * *

She's not.

He comes to just before ten in the morning, her blankets wrapped around his legs. He turns to his side, and sighs when he sees that he's alone.

Then he remembers that they're at her place, and wonders if she'd really leave him alone in her bed just so that she can go on pretending that what's now happened twice between them never has.

He dresses in a hurry (somewhat amused that she'd managed to snap the button of his jeans off completely) and makes his way to the front. He stops when he sees her leaning over the kitchen sink, staring out the window.

"Nice view?" he asks, approaching from behind her, his footsteps soft. He slides an arm around her waist and presses a kiss to her neck.

"Not really," she shrugs. "From here, I can see the parking lot of the All-You-Can-Eat Mexican restaurant next door. Well, mostly I can see their dumpster." She puts a hand on his cheek, holds it there for a moment, then takes it away and turns to face him. "How'd you sleep?"

"Like a baby."

"You kick like a baby, too."

He laughs. Then, "So does this mean we're not going to magically will last night away like we did last time?"

"Deeks."

"What? I'm just asking."

"Why do you have to always push?"

"I'm not trying to. I'm just…is the idea of us really such a bad thing?"

"Yes."

"Oh. Okay."

"That's not what I meant. It's not the idea of you and me, it's the reality. And it's not you and it's not me."

"Wait, I've heard this before."

"It's us."

"Us, right."

"Deeks, why do you want this so badly?"

"Because I think we work. Both on the playing field and off of it. As partners, we're good, Kensi, we're really good. I think we could be good here as well."

"And if we're not, if we screw this up, then we both lose. We could lose everything and I…I can't do that again, Deeks. I can't lose you."

"So that's it?"

"That's it."

"I don't get a say?"

"Not in this."

"Fine."

"Please…"

"No, it's okay. I just…I wish sometimes you weren't so scared."

He sees the flare he'd been expecting – Kensi Blye is rarely afraid of anything – but it disappears almost immediately, and instead, quietly she replies, "I know, and I'm sorry, but this is the way it has to be."

"So just work partners then?"

"And friends. We're still friends, right?"

"Yeah." Then, quietly, "I should go."

"Right."

He turns and heads towards the door.

"Deeks."

"What?" he asks, turning back to face her, perhaps too much hope in his eyes.

She crosses the room quickly, and then steps into his arms, wrapping her own around him. He pulls her towards him, enjoying the feel of her.

"You mean a lot to me, and I would do anything for you, too," she tells him.

"I know," he says. "I just…I know."

He leans down, and kisses her. It's light, but no less sweet. After a moment, he reluctantly breaks away. They stare at each for a couple of seconds, and then, just as its starting to feel uncomfortable, he cracks, "You know you still owe me a shirt, right? And a new pair of jeans now, too."

"Oh," she groans, pushing away from him. "Go away."

"For now," he says. "But I'll always be back."

"You promise?"

"Yeah."

"I'm holding you to that."

"Wouldn't have it any other way."

"Go home, Deeks."

"Going home, Fern."

She laughs, and then watches as he turns and leaves. She locks the door behind him, and then sinks down onto the couch.

Now, sitting on the couch that Jack had been sleeping on two nights earlier, her jaw still terribly sore from his unexpected strike, she's sure that she made the right decision in regards to Deeks.

It'd be so easy to let down her guard and let him in. She wants to – she really wants to. He's right, they'd probably match up wonderfully as a couple, but it's a risk she simply can't take.

He means too much to her.

He grounds her, he makes her laugh, he helps her to forget about the darkness that seems to hover so terribly close to her.

What he is to her, what he does for her, she's come to a place where she's not sure she can survive without it. She rather suspects that she somehow fills the same voids in him as he does for her. Which means that if by denying the emotions and feelings they have for each other, they protect the partnership, well then they can both live with that, she figures.

In any case, it's just how it's going to have to be, and that's all there is to it.

**TBC.**


	3. Chapter 3

The third time it happens is less than two months later, and this time he's the one coming apart at the seams. He's also the one who breaks his partner's nose.

Sometimes, Marty Deeks loves his job. It's fun and dramatic, and ever changing. He rarely knows what to expect from day to day, and that's a damned good thing.

Today, however, he hates his job.

On this afternoon, almost exactly fifty-eight days after he'd found Kensi Blye lying unconscious in her apartment thanks to her ex-fiancé, he's the one who clocks her hard enough to knock her out. The major difference is, Jack had only left a massive bruise behind. He actually breaks bones.

He tries to tell himself that he'd had no choice. He tries to tell himself that he'd had to do it in order to complete the mission.

That doesn't quiet the voices in his head, and it sure as hell doesn't change him from having a sudden frantic need to walk up to Hetty, tell her thank you for everything, put his badge on her desk and then turn and walk away.

That he doesn't is more cowardice, he thinks, than dedication to the job.

No, in all honesty, it's more than that. Deep down, he knows that the real reason he hadn't resigned had been all about her. He just couldn't walk away from her.

The case had been a complex one from the moment it had been handed over to the NCIS team courtesy of his so-called friends over at the LAPD. It had involved a nasty gunrunner with a bad temper and no class named Julio Cortez.

Unfortunately for him, Deeks knew the guy. Entirely too well.

Two years earlier, he'd worked for Cortez as part of an LAPD deep undercover op. He'd been a guy named Marcus Perry, a real son of a bitch if ever there was one. The drink too hard, screw too much and hurt too many kind of dude. The kind of guy that the world desperately needed to be locked away in either in a pine or cement box.

Truth be told, of all of the undercover assignments that Deeks has ever done, Marcus Perry is the one he'd like to forget the most.

Unfortunately, Perry had been their way back into Cortez's world. Two years ago, he'd been arrested with the rest of Cortez's crew in the middle of a move of hundreds of gang war type weapons across the US/Mexican border.

After a quick arraignment with the rest of the gang, he'd supposedly been shipped off to Wyoming thanks to a series of outstanding felony warrants there. Last anyone had known about Perry, he'd been behind bars awaiting trial for murder and a whole host of other crimes.

In any case, as far as Cortez was aware, Marcus Perry had been loyal.

And so, that morning, Deeks had walked into a seedy little dive in the heart of Hollywood, sat down at the grungy unwashed bar, ordered three shots of the cheapest Vodka available, and said, "Heard you need a guy for a job."

Cortez had turned his head slightly, regarded him with an amused smile, and replied, "Marcus. I'd heard whispers you were back around town, but I didn't dare hope. Last I knew, Wyoming was throwing the book at you." As always, Cortez had slipped in between Spanish and English, mixing words haphazardly.

"They were and they did. Let's just say I had one hell of a lawyer. Long legs, great tits, pretty much the whole fucking package you know? Anyway, babe got it all tossed out because the cops screwed up the bagging and the tagging."

"And so you walked."

"My way right out of that hellhole that was Wyoming."

"Nice. You oughta give me her number. Bet she could help some of the other boys who are still hanging out behind bars."

Deeks had shrugged. "Coulda maybe. Not anymore. Knew too much."

"Ah. Of course. You cleaned up well, I presume?"

"Ain't nobody gonna find her ever. They'll find fucking Hoffa first."

"Well done," Cortez had nodded, clearly impressed.

That'd been the point of Marcus Perry – he had to be meaner and more of a depraved creep than even Cortez was in order to get into the inner circle. Perry's lack of anything approaching a conscience made him an invaluable weapon to a sadistic gunrunner like Cortez. When guys needed to be made to disappear, Perry made it happen – or at least appeared to make it happen. Typically, the soon-to-be victims were whisked away, and hidden somewhere deep in the middle of the country, somewhere where they'd never be found again.

New name, new life, new everything.

Most of them didn't deserve it, but to stop Cortez, the LAPD and the Feds had been willing to do just about anything, including making deals with lower ranking scumbags. During the almost ten months that Deeks had been undercover with Cortez, they'd made at least a dozen of those deals. Thankfully, most of those little dirtbags had been so scared for their lives that they'd been happy for the second chance at life, and they'd gladly disappeared off the map.

Which meant that as far as Cortez was concerned, Marcus Perry had killed and buried at least a dozen men and women.

Chilling really.

"So what's the job?" Deeks had asked, signaling for a new set of shots. Another downside of Perry's – the man drank like a fish.

"I need you to make a woman disappear."

"Ex of yours?"

Cortez had laughed. "No. I take care of those ones myself."

"Right. So, who is she?"

"Los Angeles DA. Helen Price."

"You want me to do a DA?" Deeks had asked with some incredulity.

"Too big a job for you, Marcus?"

"Might be too expensive for you," he'd shot back with a smirk.

"That's my boy. Trust me, not too expensive at all. This bitch has made putting our old crew behind bars one of her calling cards. Only reason you escaped her is well, because the state of Wyoming got you first. She finds out you're back in town, she'll come after you, I promise."

"Sounds like it's about high time to shut her up."

"Permanently," Cortez had nodded. "You understand?"

"Certainly."

"I want it done by the end of today."

"Dramatic and immediate," Deeks had nodded. "That's really going to cost you."

"Like I said, don't worry about that. Worry about her. Dead. By midnight."

"What do you want for proof of death?"

"If you can get me a finger, that's preferable, but I'll take some really nasty pictures of her all over the morning news."

"I'll get you the finger."

"I have missed you, Marcus."

"Aw, I'm touched. Just remember my money."

"Have I ever cheated you?"

"No, but I'd certainly feel better if I was paid up-front for this."

"You know my rules, Marcus; money when the job is done and not a moment before. Gotta protect myself, too."

"Yeah. Whatever. And by the way, you have fucked me over before. You remember that reporter chick you threw at me?"

"Oh, yeah. She was unfortunate, now wasn't she? Eh, she was taken care of."

"True," Deeks had nodded, feeling his stomach roll. That girl had been one of the ones he hadn't been able to save. A silly reporter wanna-be who had stumbled upon the crew, and then tried to sleep her way to knowledge of the inner workings of the gang. When she'd been found out, it'd been too late for him to find a way to get her out safely. Cortez had murdered her himself. Horribly.

"How we do things, right?"

"Yep." Deeks had gotten up and started for the door.

"Hey, Marcus?"

"Yeah?"

"How'd you hear about my job?"

"Heard it from Tony. He said he heard it from Ryan. And you know, so on. They said you were sniffing around trying to find me. Well, here I am."

"Here you are. Good luck."

"Don't need luck. Never have," Deeks had replied with a cocky grin.

Then he'd left the bar, walked down the street about two blocks, gotten in his car, and driven around randomly for a good hour, just making sure that no one was following him. He'd parked the car about five miles from the Mission and jogged his way over, stopping briefly to get a couple of chilidogs from Kensi's favorite street vendor (the one she'd been banned from going to after she'd pulled a gun on him when he'd tried to cheat her…or something odd like that).

In regards to the car, Eric would surely send men over in a bit to work the vehicle over and ensure it hadn't been bugged in any way. Deeks had tried to tell them that Cortez didn't have the skills for anything high-tech. Still, operational policy dictated that all vehicles had to be cleared after an op before they could be allowed back near headquarters. Annoying, but logical and practical.

His partner had been waiting for him when he'd stepped inside, a cup of some half-empty ice-cold chocolate drink in her hand. "You okay?" she'd asked.

"Isn't that my line?" he'd replied, handing her one of the chilidogs.

She'd smiled, and almost immediately, he'd felt tension roll away from his shoulders. "Thanks," she'd said, before biting into the chilidog. "So…are you?"

"Okay?" He'd shrugged then. "Yeah. I just hate Perry."

"You…he…did some…"

"Bad stuff," he'd finished for her. "Really bad stuff."

"I'm sorry."

"For?"

"This job sometimes. It makes us…be people we hate." The way she'd said it, he'd been reminded of just how little the two of them really know about each other's pasts. She has secrets, he knows. Some of them awful, he's sure.

"Yeah. I'm cool, though. You?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

He'd shrugged again, then changing the subject away from Perry, asked, "So, what's the plan? How we doing this thing with the DA?"

"We're going to set it up so that she and Callen are leaving a restaurant on a dinner date around eight tonight. You'll go after them as they come out. You'll shoot both of them. She'll be pronounced dead at the scene."

"And the finger?" he asks with a hint of distaste.

"Will be in Mr. Callen's pocket. A gift from the County Morgue." Hetty had said as she had come towards them, hands folded behind her back.

"They're giving us a…finger?"

"Indeed. And that's all you need know about it."

"That's creepy. On both counts," Deeks had muttered. Then, to Kensi, "Where will you and Sam be?"

"Sam will be the paramedic that arrives on the scene, the one that pronounces Price and Callen dead. I'll be enjoying a nice long dinner inside the restaurant, providing cover from behind the scene in case we get any unexpected visitors."

"Be careful."

"Why? Please don't tell me you're worried about me," she'd said, eyebrow up. He could see by the shifting of her posture that she'd been riling herself up to snap at him if he'd confirmed it.

So, of course, he hadn't. He likes to think that he's smarter than that.

"No, it's just…jobs for Cortez have a strange way of going upside down. He doesn't really trust anyone – even Perry - so sometimes he double-books jobs to ensure they get done. Usually ends up with a lot of collateral damage."

"There's nothing to worry about," she'd assured him. "As soon as you take the proof of death back to Cortez, we'll be there to arrest him, and that'll be the end of it. And then DA Price can nail his ass to the wall."

"And then I can retire Perry. For good." He'd looked over at Hetty, who had simply nodded her approval of his words, much to his relief.

Kensi, for her part, had smiled at him again, and not for the first time, he'd wondered just how deep inside his soul she really could see.

"It's almost over," she'd said, reaching out to rest her hand on his bicep.

He'd nodded.

How wrong she'd been.

* * *

Everything had started out according to plan.

District Attorney Helen Price was an unbeatable firecracker in the courtroom, but a complete loser in the love department. She was a woman with notoriously bad luck with men. Three failed marriages and two broken engagements had been enough to make a lot of tongues around City Hall wag.

They were sure to be wagging on Monday about her date with a handsome blonde man. Assuming, of course, that she made it to Monday.

At just after eight at night, arm in arm, she and Callen had passed by Kensi, who had been sitting by herself at a table, sipping from a glass of wine (her first).

As soon as they had stepped outside, Kensi had stood up, put a twenty-dollar bill on the table, and then moved to a place near the windows, where she could see the street better. Her hand had slipped under the hem of her white shirt, down to the butt of her Sig, ready to pull it as needed.

The moment Callen and Price had exited the restaurant, Deeks, who had been parked across the street, had gotten out of his car and stepped forward, a black ski mask over his face. He'd pulled a gun out and pointed it at them.

That's when everything had gone upside down.

Apparently, his fears about Cortez double-booking the job had been legitimate. A man inside the restaurant, an up and comer named Andre, had jumped up to take Callen and Price from behind.

Only the gun in his hand was loaded with real bullets instead of the blanks that had been inside of the one Deeks had been carrying.

Kensi had leapt into action, tackling Andre from behind. It had been one hell of a takedown, but it had also turned the whole op into a mess in a hurry.

People had been screaming and yelling out "gun" at both Deeks and Andre. And there he'd been, standing in the middle of the street, gun out, staring stupidly at Callen and Price, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do now.

Only the sound of Sam in his ear snapping, "Do it, Deeks," had woken him up.

He'd fired four times. Two bullets at Callen, two at Price. A pro at pretending to be shot and killed (some of it from horrifying personal experience), Callen had reached out with one arm, and pulled Price down to the pavement with him. They'd both hit the ground hard, then well-concealed blood packs in their clothes bursting and covering their shirts in sticky red liquid.

And then there'd been Kensi.

After she'd taken down Andre – thereby exposing herself as some kind of law enforcement – she'd been forced to go after Deeks. It would look completely strange if she'd just let the shooter of a Los Angeles DA walk away unscathed.

They had to sell the op.

Oh God, did they.

She'd come up on him quick, and maybe he'd panicked, not knowing how to get away, get the proof of death he needed, and get back to Cortez.

"Freeze," she'd yelled at him, standing just a few feet away, maybe less than two.

He'd aimed his gun back at her.

"Nowhere to go," she'd said. "Put it down."

"Okay," he'd replied. "Okay." He'd started to lower the weapon, and then looked over her shoulder, eyes widening.

In a normal situation, Kensi would never have taken the bait. She never would have so much as twitched an inch. But in that moment, she'd understood what he had been asking her to do. And so she had turned her head just slightly, as if looking behind her. Just a millimeter or two.

Enough for him.

He'd been on her immediately, pulling back his fist and punching at her. At the last moment, she'd seen the blow coming and tried to pull away, but all she'd managed to do was move herself into the path of his balled hand (which he'd intended to simply glance off her cheek). He'd struck her soundly against the nose, cracking the bone immediately.

And oh God, the sound of the bone breaking – the crack. It'd been awful.

She'd cried out in surprise, and fallen to the ground, hand over her bleeding nose. One hand had still been clutched around her gun, but she'd suddenly been in no condition to immediately go after him.

It'd been clear to him that she'd never expected him to hit her so hard.

He hated himself for it.

The only thing that had kept him from dropping to his knees to beg for forgiveness was the need to put Cortez behind bars for good.

Bad enough all the other things that Cortez had done in his life, but making him return to Marcus Perry, well that was damn near unforgivable as far as Deeks was concerned. Especially when it meant hurting her.

He'd made his way over to Callen and Price, reached down with a knife and cut into one of the blood bags, all while reaching into Callen's pocket and removing the (severed) finger the County Morgue had sent over.

Twenty minutes later, it had all been over. The finger had been handed to Cortez, who had smiled and given him an envelope full of money. And then Sam – and Callen wearing scrubs – had burst in, guns out, and made the arrest.

The first question he'd asked as soon as Cortez had been pushed into the back of a black and white had been, "Where's Kensi?"

"At the hospital," Sam had replied. "Broken nose."

"Really?" he'd said. Then, "I…I never meant to…I didn't…"

"You did what you had to do," Callen had cut in. "I'm sure she understands that."

"I hope so."

"Go see her," Callen had urged. "They should be pretty close to releasing her. I'm sure she'll need a ride home."

"She may not want a ride with me," Deeks had countered.

"She'll understand," Sam had said, echoing Callen's words. "We've all had to take our partner out before in order to sell a cover. Some of us just break a few more bones and enjoy it more than others."

"Oh, that only happened once," Callen had laughed. Then, "Deeks, keep us updated. But she's fine, really. You did good work today."

"Yeah. Is there um…is there something you guys do when you permanently kill of an alias? Something dramatic?"

Both men had shrugged. "Put him in a box. Bury him in the archives."

"Yeah, I was hoping for something…bigger."

"I'm sure Kensi has a few things she'd like to do to Perry," Sam had cracked.

"Well considering Perry is me, and most of what Kensi does to men she doesn't like involves the removal of vital…parts…I'll pass."

"Good call," Callen had laughed. Then he and Sam had turned and walked away, leaving Deeks to stand in the middle of Cortez's former hideout.

Thoughtful and hurting.

* * *

Two hours have passed since the conversation at the bar and even though his cell phone has rung a half dozen times, he's nowhere close to the hospital where he knows she is.

He has no idea how he's supposed to face her after breaking her nose. Yeah, maybe she will understand, but that doesn't change the fact that he'd just hurt the one person in the world that he'd promised himself he'd never hurt.

The past year is something of a blur to him.

Meeting her, working with her, and dammit, falling for her.

Two amazing nights later, and he's all kinds of messed up.

He thinks about his other aliases, very few of them good men. He thinks about Marcus Perry, the worst of the lot.

He thinks about the women and the liquor and the utter depraved way that he'd lived and acted while he'd worked with Cortez's crew. He thinks about lying in bed at night, wondering what kind of man willingly allows this kind of evil and darkness in.

Now, Perry hopefully in the past, he wonders what kind of man you have to be to survive it.

He takes his badge out of his pocket, and runs his fingers over the shield.

Somehow or another, he ends up back at his loft, sitting on the couch, his fingers curled tightly into Monty's fur. The pup leans in close, knowing only that his daddy is distraught about something, knowing only this his job right now is to make his daddy make that loud cheerful noise he makes when he's happy.

So he rolls on his back, feet up. He goes for silly and goofy, and just plain odd. His daddy pets him, and scratches his belly, but doesn't make the good noise.

"Sorry, buddy," Deeks mumbles, reaching for a bottle of beer. As he does, he feels the bite of his wallet in his back pocket. He reaches down and pulls it out, seeing Perry's license there. He takes it out and looks at it.

Then he gets up, tosses it into the fireplace (he thinks maybe it's a stroke of good luck that his loft is one of the only ones in the complex with a fireplace – at the time he'd rented the place, he'd been annoyed at having to pay extra for something he figured he'd never use). He lights it and watches as the plastic curls, breaks, bends and melts, sending a rancid smell around the room.

He steps away from the fireplace, and crosses back over to the couch. Picking up the beer again, he takes a healthy swig of it, thinking that maybe he'll drink himself to sleep tonight and deal with everything else tomorrow.

His partner has other plans for him.

Well, of course she does.

Just as he's finishing up the first bottle (and watching the flames peter out, leaving behind a charred and melted hunk of unidentifiable plastic in the fireplace), he hears a loud sharp knock on the front door of his loft.

Slowly, he gets off the couch, crosses over to it, looks through the peephole and startles when he sees her on the other side.

He opens the door, "Kensi?"

"Hi, partner," she says, her voice slightly nasally. There's crisscrossing bright white tape over the bridge of her nose, and considerable swelling and bruising around her eyes. A single black stripe rings her left eye.

"How'd you get here?" he asks, looking past her.

"Good to see you, too," she quips. Then, "Eric picked me up." She turns slightly, and nods at the blond tech, who is standing outside of his car, down in the parking lot of the apartment complex. "I told him I needed to talk to you, said you'd make sure I got home safe and sound. Not sure he believes me right now."

"I'm sorry," Deeks says, completely misunderstanding. "I never meant…"

"That's not why he doesn't believe me. He doesn't think you're a threat to me. Obviously. No, he's just ticked off because you left me in a hospital for hours. Just sitting there on a stupid bed looking like an idiot waiting for my partner to come pick me up. Do you know how much I hate waiting on anyone?" Her voice has sped up, and she's in full rant mode, her face flushing slightly. "I would have left myself if they'd let me, but oh no, apparently they don't think someone with a broken nose and looped on painkillers has any business..."

"I'm sorry," he says again, cutting her off. Then he steps outside the door and waves to Eric. He calls out. "I got it from here."

"You'd better," Eric grumbles before getting in his car and driving away. Deeks shuts the door, and ushers her into his loft and onto the couch.

She looks around then, almost like she's sniffing the air. "Admittedly," she says, "I'm a bit plugged up right now, but what is that horrible smell?"

"Burnt plastic," he replies. "I made sure Perry is dead and buried." He says it as nonchalantly as he can, but she doesn't buy it for a moment.

"Deeks…"

"It's a fine. You want a beer?"

"Yeah."

He gives her one, which she cracks open immediately.

After she's knocked back half the bottle and then taken a moment to think about what she wants to say, she starts with, "I'm not upset at you for what you did."

"I am," he says. "I…I should have come up with something better."

"You did the only thing you could to complete the job. We were stuck. You had to take me down somehow or we wouldn't have made the arrest," she insists.

"Not good enough," he replies, shaking his head. "My job is to protect you."

"No," she says instantly, her dark eyes blazing dangerously. "It's not. Your job is to be my back. My job is to be yours. Sometimes, Deeks, that means we have to play parts we don't want to."

He takes a sip of his beer, then says, "Do you know how many terrible things I did as Perry?"

"No, but if you want to talk about, I'm here."

He seems surprised for a moment. Generally, one of the rules of this job is that you pretty much have internalize the bad parts of it. You're expected to suck it up, and pretend that none of it ever affects you.

"I…you've done jobs like this, right?"

She nods slowly.

"Why don't you ever talk about them?"

She shrugs. "Not much to say."

"Right. Not much to say. Tell me something and.,.and be honest, okay?"

She's clearly suspicious of where he's going with, but slowly, she nods. "Okay."

"Do you consider me to be the weak link in our partnership?"

"What?"

"I'm serious, Kensi. You know what I mean. I'm the cop and you're the Fed."

"Which doesn't matter to me a bit, Deeks. Never has. You're my partner."

"Right," He gets up off the couch and starts pacing around. From the ground, made nervous by his daddy's clear anxiety, Monty whines.

"Deeks…"

"We all know that I got pushed on you guys by Hetty. You never wanted me and you all make it clear that I'm the outsider who gets tolerated."

"Deeks, it's all jokes," she says. She starts to frown, but her face, the skin of it already strained by her broken nose, protests. She winces, biting down on her lip. Thankfully, Deeks has his back to her, and doesn't notice.

"Is it?"

"What is this?" She seems legitimately confused, and maybe a bit worried. It's utterly unlike him to be acting like this. She doesn't doubt that he has some sensitivity towards the jokes from time to time, but he's always been really good at rolling with the punches and even returning a few of his own.

She kind of hates the idea that he might ever have taken the jokes seriously.

She really hates the idea that he might ever think she wants him to be anywhere but at her side and at her back.

"I'm just wondering. I mean, if I was reassigned back to the LAPD tomorrow – if I transferred back - and they got you a new partner, would it matter?"

"Would I be here right now if it didn't?" she demands, her face flushing with anger. Mixed in with the bruising, it makes her skin take on a bright purple hue.

"Maybe, I mean like it or not, we are partners, which means we have to work together. Unless I go back to the LAPD, I mean."

"Did…did I miss a fight between us?" she asks. "Because I sure feel like I did. Where is all this talk about going back to the LAPD coming from?"

"I'm just saying, maybe it's for the best."

"Oh, God. Is that…is this really about what happened earlier tonight? Is that what this is? Deeks, I'm fine."

"I…"

"Jesus, what is it with men? They say they like their women tough, but the moment we get even a small bruise on them, you guys freak the hell out."

"Bruise? Kensi, I broke your nose."

"Yes, you did. And I'm still fine."

"Bullshit. Why do we always have to play this game? You're clearly not fine. You have more colors on your face right now than there is in a bag of Skittles."

"Awesome. Thank you for that. Okay, if it's what you want to hear, I'm not fine. I hurt. I hurt a hell of a lot right now. And you are killing whatever buzz I had going on from the painkillers with whatever…this is."

"Maybe I should take you home so you can get some rest…"

She lets out a frustrated growl, and then gets up and walks towards him. "That's not what I want. What I want is for you to tell me what's going on here."

He runs his fingers through his shaggy blonde hair. "I just wonder if I'm any good at this. I wonder if I'm helping anyone."

"Pretty sure Helen Price thinks you are."

"Why? You saved her life, not me."

"We saved her life. As a team. And Deeks, you're part of the team. You're my partner. There's no one else I want as my partner. No one. Get it?"

"Why?"

"Because I trust you, and if you don't know by now how hard that is for me to say, then maybe you're right, maybe we have no business being paired up." She stares at him for a moment before adding in a quiet voice, "In any way."

His eyebrow lifts. "Any way?"

She laughs. "Really? You went there?"

"You went there first. 'In any way' implies other ways besides just work partners."

She sighs, but doesn't bother to deny it.

"Explain something to me, why do you refuse the idea of a you and me? You say you trust me as your partner. Do you not trust me that way?"

"Are we really having this conversation now?" she asks.

"What better time?"

"Fine. The reason I'm not willing to take that chance is because I've seen how this goes. How it always goes. I lose everyone," she says, suddenly sounding very tired and worn out "Everyone leaves me eventually. I've gotten used to it, but it never stops hurting. I think losing you would…I think it would kill me."

He steps towards her, into her personal space. "What if I promised you I'd never leave?"

"How can you make that promise when just five minutes ago you were talking about asking to be transferred back to the LAPD?"

"What if I didn't? What if I stayed right here? With you."

"This is getting really sappy," she laughs, clearly nervous.

"I don't mind," he says.

"Deeks, we can't do this," she whispers as he moves even closer.

"Why not? Why can't we allow ourselves a little bit of happiness? Look at us? Look at the world we live in. We have to be terrible people sometimes. Is it so wrong that every now and again, we want to enjoy something real and good?"

"No, but…"

"You're right, I can't promise you I won't ever leave. I obviously can't promise you that I won't ever hurt you, but I can try. I can…"

"Deeks…"

"And it's not against the rules for us to be involved. I checked…"

"You checked? That was optimistic of you."

He laughs. "On my best days, I'm an optimistic guy."

"And that's why I need you as my partner," she says. "Because I'm not. Every time I look around, I see just how awful people can be. When I see a guy walking down the street with his arm around a woman, I don't think 'they're cute'. I think 'I wonder if he's that good to her when he has a bad day at work'. And when I see a woman pushing a stroller, I don't think, 'I bet the baby is adorable'. I think 'I wonder if there are drugs in there'. That's where my mind goes."

"Your head really is a scary place," he says.

"You have no idea."

"I'd like to."

"You know this is going to end badly, right?" she says, her voice soft, almost like she's pleading with him.

"It doesn't have to."

"It will."

"Maybe not."

"Deeks."

"Shut up," he says.

"That's definitely my line," she chuckles.

He shakes his head, and then leans in and kisses her, pressing his lips to hers. He feels her arms go around him almost immediately, pulling him closer. After a brief moment, he pulls back, and looks down at her.

"Can you breathe all right?" he asks.

"Not really," she laughs.

"I can work with that."

"What?"

He leans forward and nips her neck. He hears her let out a soft moan, and can't help but smile. "You are beautiful," he says between petal soft kisses against her skin. Each creates a spot of coolness against her warm flesh.

"Deeks…"

He pulls up. "Why did you come here tonight?"

"I was worried about you," she says immediately.

"And if I told you that I'm fine?"

She smirks. "I wouldn't believe you."

"Look at that, I'm taking after you."

"And I suppose, in some ways, I'm taking after you," she says. "You make me laugh. You make me smile. You make the bad parts of the job less…awful."

"Thank you," he says, and then leans back in for a kiss. She laughs, making her lips rumble. "What?" he asks, again pulling back.

"So you think because we had this nice sweet moment that you're going to get something out of it?"

"I was hoping you'd comfort me," he says, returning his mouth to her neck. She feels one of his hands slide under the hem of her white shirt.

"Comfort you?" she says, tilting her head back so as to give him better access to her neck.

"It's been a hard day for me."

"For you? I have a broken nose!"

"I know. And my hand hurts from hitting you."

"Serves you right," she grumbles as he starts pushing her shirt upwards. As it rises up, exposing her smooth muscular abs, she catches sight of specks of blood on it, spray from when he'd originally broken her nose hours earlier.

"Probably," he admits as he pulls the shirt fully over her head, leaving her topless except for her white bra. Then, looking at her. "You really are beautiful."

She blushes and mutters, "I wish you'd stop saying that."

"I wish you'd believe it. I mean, actually believe it."

"I..."

"You know you're hot, but I don't think you have a clue how beautiful you are."

"Deeks, kiss me, please and just shut up, okay?"

"Okay." He leans forward and kisses her again, pulling her towards him. Aware of her breathing issues thanks to her broken nose, he makes the kiss short, and far more shallow than either of them would like. He's amused when he hears her whimper in protest when he breaks away.

If he has his way, by the end of the night, she'll be whimpering in an entirely different way.

Suffice it to say, he has his way.

* * *

He wakes up hours later, still feeling the exhaustion of not just the first time, but the double encores that had followed. No one should ever assume Kensi Blye for a wham bam thank you ma'am kind of gal, he muses to himself.

He turns slightly to his side, and can't help but smile when he sees her still lying beside him, her legs hopelessly tangled into his white sheets. Her nose is even more swollen and colorful now, but she looks peaceful and calm.

And yes, beyond beautiful.

He reaches over and moves hair away from her eyes. She stirs slightly, shifting in the sheets (and exposing a whole lot of skin to him), but doesn't come awake.

He slides himself behind her, and loops an arm around her, pressing his chest against her bare back and burying his face into the crook of her neck.

"Deeks," she mumbles.

"Don't you figure you should call me Marty by now?" he asks, pressing a kiss to her neck.

"No," she says. "You're Deeks."

"Okay."

"You always this much of a cuddler?" she asks even as he feels her lean back into him, one of her hands sliding over his as if to keep it where it is.

"Yes. You want me to stop?"

"No."

"Then shut up and go back to sleep."

"That's the second time tonight you've told me to shut up."

"Well, then I only have five thousand more times to go before I match how many times you've told me to do it."

"And counting," she grins before wincing as pain from her broken nose shoots through her face. "Ow," she half laughs/half whimpers.

"Yeah, that's what you get for mocking me," he says as he nips her earlobe.

"Funny…funny boy."

"That's me," he replies, chuckling against her. She can feel the way his chest rumbles, and she's amazed by how much she likes the feeling.

"Yeah," she says, sliding a hand back and gently caressing his bearded jaw. "That's you." Then she brings the hand down, slides it into one of his, pulls it front of her and tightens her hold. A moment later, she's sleeping again.

He pulls her closer (if possible) and closes his own eyes.

* * *

He's making breakfast for them when she comes out, freshly showered, her hair still dripping water. She's wearing her jeans from the previous night, but one of his LAPD tee-shirts. It's big on her, but he thinks it's never been worn better.

She laughs when she sees his expression. "Guys are so predictable," she says.

"Huh?"

"The shirt. I'm wearing your shirt and you're completely turned on by it."

He shrugs. "It's a…"

"Guy thing?"

"Yeah, but in a good way. We just like to…be around…you know, there's pretty much no way I can explain this that won't make me sound like a caveman."

"No, there isn't."

"Pancakes?"

"That's better." She steps into the kitchen and drops herself down into one of the chairs next to his kitchen table (which is a lot less cluttered than hers).

He comes over a moment later with two plates and puts them down. Then, looking at her. "I feel like I should get you some ice, too."

"Wouldn't help at this point. And really, it's mostly just…heavy now. Doesn't really hurt all that much."

"Good. You know I am sorry, right?"

"Didn't we do this last night?"

"Actually, we started to and then we did other stuff."

"Subtle, Deeks."

"That's me. Subtle as a brick. Or a rock. Or a fist or…" he stops when he looks up and sees her smirking at him, looking utterly amused.

The expression is somewhat new to him – not necessarily from her but overall. He's used to being humored, but what he's seeing from her, it's not the patient look that others give him, the kind that's somewhat patronizing.

No, what he's seeing from her, it's actual amusement.

He thinks about what she'd said the night before about how he makes her laugh, how he makes the bad parts of the job tolerable.

"Not just words," he whispers.

"What?"

"Nothing. You want syrup?"

"Yeah. And another stack of these. I'm famished."

"How is it possible that you eat the way you do and look the way you do?"

She looks up at with a slight petulant pout on her lips, "Did your mom never tell you not to ask a woman about her eating habits?"

"Oh, she told me, but I don't think she ever envisioned a woman like you."

"Is that a compliment?"

"Absolutely."

She smiles at him, he smiles back.

Then, "So does this mean you're willing to actually give this a go?"

"If I'm right, I'm never going to let you forget it," she says, trying to make it a joke. She's only somewhat successful, a hint of vulnerability seeping through.

"Well, first, I wouldn't expect any different, but second, sounds like a challenge and you know how much I enjoy those."

"I always beat you."

"Not this time, Fern."

She rolls her eyes, then says softly, "You'd better be right. Tim."

He leans down and presses a kiss to the top of her head, holding it there for a long moment. She reacts by wrapping her arms around his legs, and pressing her face against his stomach. It's sweet, and gentle, and emotional.

"Kensi, I…"

"Don't you dare," she says. "Just, please let this moment just be this moment."

"You have no idea what I was about to say."

"Maybe. Maybe not. But there's no way that I'm giving you a chance to screw this up in the first ten minutes," she teases.

"Me? I'm not the one with commitment issues."

"Deeks…" she warns. He's right, though, but she has no intention of dealing with that hurdle today. Later probably, but not now.

"Got it. Shutting up."

"Good boy."

"I can be taught."

"Doubtful. Now go get some more pancakes started," she says, pushing him away from her.

He laughs, and steps away, turning his back on her. He walks over to the counter, and pours some batter onto the grill.

"Hey, Deeks," she says after about two minutes of peaceful silence.

"Oh, you wanted some syrup, right?" he asks, turning back to face her. He's a bit surprised when he sees a serious expression on her bruised face.

"You are one of us," she says. "One of the team. And we're better – all of us – with you. If you left, we'd be less."

He swallows hard, tries to smile, and then stops himself, fearing that he might let out something overly emotional. Instead, mutely, he nods.

"Deeks?"

"What?" he croaks, afraid of what else she might say.

"You're burning my pancakes."

He spins back, and sees that indeed, the side of the pancake on the grill is now solid black. He flips it quickly, but it's clearly a lost cause. "Dammit," he groans.

He hears her laugh. It's an amazing sound. "Thanks," he says softly, not turning around. He doesn't need to; a moment later, she's behind him, her arms wrapped again around him. He pulls them tighter.

He's pretty sure he could live forever like this.

"I won't let you down," he whispers.

"You never have," she answers before pressing a kiss to his neck. She holds it there for a moment, her hair tickling his face. Then, just as he's thinking about picking her up and taking her back into the bedroom, she says, "Now you're burning the other side."

This time, he's the one that laughs.

And this time, she's the one who thinks that it's just about the most perfect sound that she's ever heard.

It's the morning after the third time they end up in bed together.

The third time, but far from the last time.

**-fin**


End file.
